


Saving Grace

by DoIEverForgetThePie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Wings, Castiel in the Bunker, Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hell, Human Castiel, M/M, Mark of Cain, Men of Letters Bunker, Post-Season 10, Season 11, The Darkness - Freeform, angel grace, season 10
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4394507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoIEverForgetThePie/pseuds/DoIEverForgetThePie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel gave his grace for the a spell found in the Book of the Damned in order to cure Dean from the Mark. He plummeted from grace, wings ripped right out. Castiel is attempting to recover from his fall, and things go well at first (for the most part), until the Darkness starts tormenting every creature in existence and Dean starts seeing glimpses of a familiar place via unwanted visions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, against my better judgement I have decided to post this chapter of this fic because my followers on Tumblr seem very excited. There's a lot more already written, but I plan to update it every Friday from here on out (because Friday is my off day). 
> 
> The song at the beginning of this fic is called "Saving Grace (Part 2)" by the Maine. It's actually what made me want to write this whole fic.
> 
> Comments and kudos, please :) Don't let me slack off on this one!!
> 
> Visit/follow me on Tumblr: http://doieverforgetthepie.tumblr.com

_I walk the tight rope_

_On my way home_

_I walk the fault line_

_But I’m still alone_

_And it’s true_

_Oh, it’s you_

_It’s always you._

**Chapter One**

_“I think too much heart was always Castiel’s problem.” - Samandriel_

    Castiel had lived for centuries never phased by the gravity of all he had witnessed. His faith remained unwavering through many a tragedy, but there was more to his existence than merely watching from afar. Even an angel who had spent a lifetime of the battlefields of Heaven could not possibly grasp a human's struggle until placed within the line of action.

    There had always been something about Castiel. Something in the way he held his vessel, tense and rigid, unsure of how to handle being in a tangible form. Something in the way he conducted himself in such a stoic manner, devoid of palpable emotion. Most of all that something was there in the way those mannerisms seemed to fade as humanity grappled at his edges. His once seemingly impermeable was grace retreating deep within himself. There was an undeniable beauty in a being so pure and holy mixing so perfectly with such a tarnished world.

    Castiel was crumpled in a heap in the middle of a rainstorm, unaware of how he ended up where he was, where that place was located, or even how long he had been there. He only knew he had just regained consciousness. He was sopping wet, and learning what feeling cold is like. Water droplets slid over the pores of his skin, becoming hung up on follicles of hair while his muscles tensed. The way his body shook was bordering on violent, and he found the lack of control unsettling.

     There was a familiar rumble of a car engine. Castiel could have recognized that sound anywhere. He fought lamely against the pain in his back to direct his vision toward the long black car that had just roared into the field. The bright headlights illuminated his pained face as he watched the outline of Dean Winchester step out of the vehicle. Castiel’s heart seemed to seize up for brief second, skipping a beat. Dean was there, positively alive, and looking for Castiel.

Dean Winchester, once known as  _'the Righteous Man',_   now a former Knight of Hell. Dean had lived in worlds most couldn't begin to fathom existing, let alone coming out of in one piece, but Dean was resilient. He held together as if he had a soul forged from an unbreakable substance and that was where Dean's value lay. That very value, however, had been the downfall of Castiel. Dean's soul had acted like a beacon to him; meaning to guide, but obstructing his sight.

     He held his breath as Dean jogged to him. Was this _his_ Dean making is way through the muddied field? Or was it the husk of a man that had left him broken on the Bunker’s floor?

    Dean leaned down and pulled Castiel to his feet. “You okay, Cas?” Even right beside him, Dean's voice was barely audible over the steady downpour, but he didn't go unheard.

    “Weak.” 

A simple reply. One word barely mustered up and forced from deep within his chest. Castiel had grown to understand the weight of words, and knew how this particular one would sit with Dean. Castiel had learned humanity through the ways of Winchesters. Confessions of weakness was a sign of being pushed beyond their limits.

    Dean shifted on his feet adjusting his hold on Cas, his clothing growing more heavily sodden with each passing second. The discomfort upon hearing that single word read plainly across his tormented expression.

    “Are you?" His free hand made a small motion toward Castiel’s body, expecting him to fill in what Dean was unable to verbalize.

Castiel hadn't remained as aloof as he had been upon first acquiring his vessel, he had learned many things, including how to read and mimic the ways humans spoke with their bodies.

    Castiel's eyes flickered away from Dean's concerned gaze as there was too much lingering in what remained tucked under their tongues. He felt like choking on the overwhelming toxicity of all that remained unspoken between the two of them. The years of angry rants and swallowed apologies were slowly tightening the noose that waited to choke out their unpredictable relationship. Had enough become too much? Would too much lead to the breaking point?

    “Human.”

    That one simple English word cut through the tension like a jagged blade through tender flesh. The confession tasted bittersweet to the former angel after all his struggle. After all lengths he had gone to regain his grace only to have been stripped of it again; to saw it rocked his entire foundation would have been an understatement.

He had sacrificed everything for Dean to be free of the unrelenting hold the Mark of Cain had placed on him because he had a connection with Dean that reached far past his celestial powers.Still, it had left Castiel wondering if his choice had been worth it for him. He had options in his situation. He could have lived until the end of time and been forced to watch the Dean Winchester he had once known tear apart the world. Or, he could forgo his grace for the spell that would remove the Mark, leaving him mortal, but not without Dean. The latter of the two seemed the most favorable as death had never been more daunting than the possibility of spending an eternity watching the brightest soul he had seen fizzle out.

    He steeled himself and blinked futilely against the rain. He realized as he watched the rain slide over the contours of Dean’s cheek bones that there was never really another choice for him. Given all the choices in the world, he still would have saved Dean.

The wind was becoming more aggressive now, making the ends of his drenched trench coat slap noisily against his leg. The sound was quickly drowned out by a vicious clap of thunder that rumbled Castiel's chest as he watched Dean vainly attempt to shield them from the torrential downpour.

    “Let's go home.”

    That phrase had never been so strange to hear. A casually used expression, tossed around by Dean, but meaningful to Castiel. Meaningful because Castiel hadn't had a proper home for many years, and the idea of something that could be permanent soothed his troubled mind.

    Dean's arm wrapped tighter around Castiel's exhausted body, signaling the used-to-be-angel to lean into him more. It was a welcomed feeling to remove the weight of his body from his aching feet inside his waterlogged shoes. Each step toward the Impala caused him to lean more heavily into Dean as he grew weaker; Dean supported him without complaint.

    “Lay across the back seat, I'm gonna get you to a bed.”

    Castiel looked at Dean through slightly glazed eyes but was still able to see his attempt at a smile.

    “Don't look at me like that. You're more important than getting my seats wet,” Dean’s voice was shaking just slightly, but his tone was quiet and comforting.

    Castiel lay across the backseat. His hair matted to his forehead and his wet clothes freezing against his skin, and a terrible, searing pain in his back, but none of that seemed to matter upon hearing those words from Dean. Castiel made himself believe that Dean needed him just as much as he needed Dean. It was rare that special words like that managed to slip out into the open, but when they did he held on to them. He tucked them away in a particular part of his mind, which now seemed overly crowded and sluggish from all the knowledge he possessed, but that didn’t matter. It didn't matter that his mind was filled with millennials worth of memories, the ones shared with Dean would always be the most prominent.

     Castiel rested in the back seat of the Impala. He could hear Dean talking to him, it was Dean’s attempt to calm him and keep him alert. It warmed Castiel inside to know that Dean was not only there, but making sure that he knew it. Soon enough sleep began to tug at Castiel’s eye lids. He was exhausted, was fragile in a way he had never experienced. He’d been human before, but the manner in which it was achieved hadn’t left him so tired. He found sleep strange. It was difficult for him to understand dreams, but he struggled more with the nothingness that seemed to absorb large chunks of time during sleep in which he didn’t dream.

     Dean woke Castiel with a gentle shake. His body tensed as Dean wrapped his warm fingers over the damp exposed skin of Castiel’s forearm.

     “It’s just me, Cas,” Dean assured him.

     In his sleepy haze Castiel accepted Dean’s assurance and took the hunter’s hand that had been extended to assist him. He attempted to find solace in the fact that Dean was there, reaching for him.

     Dean more or less carried Castiel into the Bunker, whispering encouraging words for the entire duration of the short walk. The softly spoken phrases caused a new spark of confusion to ignite in Castiel’s mind. He understood that it was the Mark of Cain that led Dean to nearly kill him, but he couldn’t shake all the other times he had been wronged by him. How was he to forget when he had been pushed out of the closest thing to home, aside from Heaven, that he had ever known?

     “Little help here, Sam!” Dean hollered, pushing through the Bunker’s entrance. 

     The familiar sound of Sam’s boots thumping on the concrete floors echoed through the entryway.

     “Where’d you find him?” Sam wondered as he trotted up the stairs to meet the pair of men.

    “Field,” Dean grunted. “Just outside of Lawrence of all places,” he adjusted his hold on Castiel’s arm

“How is he?” Sam’s voice was full of concern as his hand grabbed on to Castiel’s left arm, and he began to attempt to assist Dean in getting Castiel to a flat surface.

     “I’m alive,” Castiel spoke, waking up more and still in pain.

     He watched the brothers exchange worrisome looks, but couldn’t provide them any more comfort about his health. Being alive was all he could say for himself. He was drained of grace and of any energy he could have had as a human. The spell that he had given his grace for hadn’t killed him, but in his pain he almost wished it had. There was a throbbing in his skull and a dull ache in his chest, and that angry burn across his back. He was fascinated by humanity, but its pains and inconveniences did not amuse him in the slightest.

     “Dean, he’s bleeding,” Sam pointed out, fingers gently touching the spread of blood on Castiel’s back.

     “Wings,” Castiel breathed.

     Castiel hadn’t fallen from Heaven like the angels had before, but he had most certainly fallen from grace. The terrible punishment for an angel fallen into mortality such as Castiel had was much more than just clipped wings. His wings were forcibly ripped from him. He had seen it once before, but experiencing the agony from afar paled in comparison to experiencing the punishment.

     “Wings?” Dean questioned as he and Sam guided Castiel towards one of the Bunker’s many rooms.

     “They’re gone,” Castiel grimaced. “A punishment of sorts…”

     There was a hollow feeling in his chest. He had lost his wings; he had lost part of himself and his identity. Both the physical and emotional pain caused by this was nearly unbearable.

     Dean pushed open a door, which Castiel recognized as the door to Dean’s room. He was lowered onto the bed, all the while wondering why Dean had picked his room for Castiel to lay in out of all the rooms in the Bunker.

There was complete silence. Dean stared idly at the floor, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

Sam stood perfectly still for a moment, eyes darting from Castiel to Dean before he said, “I’ll get some bandages,” and left the room to retrieve the Winchester’s overhauled first aid kit.

     There were another five seconds of silence that seemed to last much longer than Castiel would have liked.

      “We’ll have to get to the wounds,” Dean’s voice was uneasy, his hands twitched at his side.

     “Right.”

Castiel understood that Dean meant he would need to remove his upper layers of clothing so they could clean and bandage the probably gaping wounds on his shoulder blades.

     Castiel had never particularly felt shame before, but the burning sensation and unwillingness to show the wounds on his back led him to believe that he was experiencing nothing less that complete and utter shame. He felt vulnerable and insecure in being taken care of, specifically in regards to his wings.

     “I don’t want Sam to see,” Castiel confessed after no movement was made. Dean seeing the damage was enough, he didn’t particularly want to chance both of the brothers fussing over him, even though he doubted either of them would.

     “Oh,” Dean blurted out but quickly recovered. “I’ll go get the kit from him then if that’s what you want.”

     Castiel nodded, “Please.”

     Dean left for just a moment. Sam had to have been near the room, as Castiel could faintly hear the conversation between them. Sam must have understood as Dean came back into the room hauling the massive first aid kit.

     There was an awkward moment of nothingness, just Dean averting his eyes and Castiel breathing silently from the edge of Dean’s bed.

“I—I need you to help me,” Castiel finally spoke. His face burned upon admitting that he needed help.

     “What?” Dean responded dumbly.

     “I can’t… I can’t undress on my own. As you would assume, I’m in significant pain.”

     “Okay…” Dean rubbed his hand nervously over his mouth and stepped toward Castiel.

     Castiel could feel the tension of the situation as Dean helped him carefully peel off a layer of clothing at a time. First the trench, heavy and wet. Then a suit jacket tossed to the side. Dean stepped back; head lowered, as Castiel began to unbutton his dress shirt.

     “Dean,” Castiel said in a voice even lower than usual as he unbuttoned the final button.

Dean knew what was needed of him and stepped toward Castiel. He stood behind him, slowly pulling the fabric away from the bloody flesh on his friend’s back. He stopped every time Castiel winced in pain.

“You doing alright, buddy?” Dean checked before he began to pull the last bit of shirt off the wound.

“I'm all right,” Castiel lied.

     As Dean removed the shirt revealing the terribly grotesque wounds that went deep into the muscles of Castiel’s back he let out an audible gasp. Castiel didn’t respond; he was aware that it must look terrible. He wouldn’t be in this much pain if the injuries were minor.

     “Cas, this looks—“

     “Dean, I know. Please, just… cover it up,” he pleaded.

     Dean began to clean the area with saline solution. Castiel briefly wondered when they had moved on to actual solutions used for medical purposes and not drinking alcohol.

     Thirty minutes or so passed with no verbal interaction between the two men, only Castiel’s labored breathing and the occasional curse word from Dean.

     “That should hold for a while. I think you’re good for now,” Dean told Castiel as he stood up and began packing the medical bag.

     Castiel laid back as best he could, closing his eyes and focusing on his breaths. He had never had need to breathe in his vessel as an angel, yet the way he pulled in oxygen and let breaths out in tiny huffs seemed almost mechanic. The whole process was terribly inconvenient for a being that was previously an angel.

     “I’m going to get you some dry clothes. I don’t have anything that’ll fit you in my dresser… So, I’ll have to look around. I’ll be back,” Dean turned and trudged out of the room.

     That left Castiel alone, and that was the last thing in the world he wanted. As he sat on the bed with his wet trousers sticking to his legs, it felt like the world was closing in on him. The gravity of the situation sinking into him like an anchor would sink into the sea. His wings were gone, leaving him with bleeding injuries that burned every second and protested against every movement he made.

     “Hey,” Sam’s soft voice filled Castiel’s ears, but he didn’t move his vision toward the source.“I wanna thank you, Cas… What you did for Dean—“

     “I did what was necessary to bring him back from the darkness growing within him.” His voice was faint, a far cry from the stern deepness of its usual tone. It mirrored how weak he felt. It almost amused him how the definition of weakness completely contradicted the actual intensity of experiencing the word.

     Sam half laughed and shook his head. “That crazy sacrificial mindset of yours is enough to consider yourself a Winchester. I’ve never met someone as willing as us to die for family, but here you are.”

      _Family._  Castiel thought about the word along with a phrase he had heard.  _Family don’t end with blood._ He had heard Dean say those words but often wondered if he was included in the part of Dean’s family not related by blood. He tried to remember moments when Dean had needed him, like the night in Lucifer’s crypt under Naomi’s mind control. Looking back on that one moment in time through the eyes of a human allowed him to see it in a different light. He could remember the event vividly. Dean’s fingers curling around his wrist.  _We’re family. We need you. **I**_   ** _need you._**  That had broken the connection between Castiel and Naomi.

      _What broke the connection?_

_I don’t know._

     But he had known. His vision of human emotion had been obscured by his grace and choked out.

     “Here.”

     A pair of gray sweat pants and a slightly stained, dingy white t-shirt landed on Castiel’s chest. He stared at the garments for a moment, the pile of clothes smelled faintly like Dean. A mixture gun powder, second hand smoke, and stale whiskey, all tied together with cheap detergent.

     “If you need help…” Dean wouldn’t look at Castiel. In fact, they hadn’t made eye contact since arriving in the Bunker. “Just let me know. And, um, make yourself at home,” there was a terse nod from Dean and a slightly awkward hand motion. He turned, hesitating as if he was considering staying. 

     “Dean,” Castiel grunted, forcing himself into a sitting position.

     Dean turned his body toward Castiel but kept his head lowered. His body was stiff, and Castiel suddenly felt minor discomfort with the situation.   

     “This isn’t your fault, you know.”

Even weak and broken, Castiel wanted nothing more than to save Dean, that had always been the mission. Now, though, the mission wasn’t an act of God, but an act of love. He had long since abandoned his loyalties to his father and placed that devotion with the Winchesters.

Dean scoffed, and shook his head. “We aren’t going to talk about this right now.” He turned to walk through the door way, “I’ll have something warm in the kitchen for you to eat. I know you’re hungry.”

     Dean was out the door, with Sam trailing close behind before Castiel even had time to register that Dean was more than correct about the hunger causing Castiel’s stomach to grumble in displeasure. The clothes on his lap put forward a daunting every day task, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask Dean for help again and wouldn’t allow Sam to assist.

     He ran his fingers over the well-loved material of the sweatpants and sighed. It wasn’t humanly possible for him to pull the t-shirt over his head at this point, so he cast it aside. He feebly worked with his belt buckle and zipper on his trousers and was nearly exhausted by the time he managed to slide the sweatpants up over his hips and adjust the draw string.

     As he sat on the bed, chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath, he realized how hard the next few months would be. Until his wounds were healed, he wouldn’t properly be able to do anything at all. He hoped that he would have help. He hoped that he would have a home.

     He looked around Dean’s room he hadn’t paid much mind to it before. He hadn’t spent much time inside of it, but it so remarkably _Dean_ that it almost made Castiel smile. Guns displayed on the wall, an open container of half eaten pecan pie, and what was left of his vinyl records packed neatly into several boxes. Castiel sighed. He knew Dean so well, but in his knowledge about Dean was a realization. Outside of saving Dean Winchester, Castiel had no idea of who he was at all.

     His mind was heavy, and his back stung with pain, but his hunger would no longer allow him to put off food so he found himself making his way into the Bunker’s kitchen.

     Once in the kitchen, he discovered Dean leaning his back against the counter top, nursing a beer. Sam was at the small table with a half ate sandwich next to his laptop.

     “Hello, Dean,” Castiel nodded. “Sam,” he added.

     “Hey, Cas,” Sam replied.

     Dean didn’t say anything at first, he only ladled soup into a bowl and placed the bowl, as well as a spoon, on the table in front of an empty chair. “I hope you like chicken noodle soup. Pantry’s kind of bare.”

     Castiel held his breath as he sat in the chair Dean had picked for him. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

     Castiel didn’t know if he liked chicken noodle soup or not, but it didn’t matter. He picked up his spoon and filled it with steaming hot soup.

     Sam looked wearily at him from over his laptop. “Careful, that’s gonna be hot,” he advised. “You should probably blow on it or something, or else you’ll scorch the roof of your mouth.”

     Castiel looked over at Dean, who had sat across from him at the table with his beer. Their eyes met for the first time since Dean had brought him into the Bunker that night. Dean’s breath seemed to be hung up in his throat, and Castiel had half expected him to rip his gaze away the moment he had looked to him. He hadn’t though. His tired green eyes stayed trained on Castiel’s own blue ones, and he knew that Dean wasn’t just looking at him. He was scrutinizing his appearance, as Castiel was doing the same.

     The man across the table from him was human. There was no evil in him. That was plain to see even through human eyes. Dean’s eyes had too much kindness, his expression too soft; but there was also an undeniable trace of fear. He wondered what Dean could see when he looked at him. What were his thoughts about his previously angelic friend now sitting shirtless and wrapped in bandages while eating soup?

     “He’s right,” Dean forced out, pressing his lips to his beer bottle immediately after and taking a long swallow


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you say early chapter update? You did?! Well here you go.

_“When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!” - Hester_

As it turns out, Castiel was very fond of chicken noodle soup, and the soup had been scorching. He took a mental note to heed any future warnings given to him by the Winchesters. They were born human, of course, they were wiser on the topic of everyday tasks.

The next couple of days passed by in a blur of changing bandages and avoiding deep conversations. Now, though, Castiel found himself standing shirtless and bandage free in front of the large mirror on the wall of the room he had taken to sleeping in. He enjoyed the spacious area, and especially appreciated the large bed. He slept more than he knew a human needed to, but his energy and will to push forward had evaded him entirely.

His face plainly showed the exhaustion he was feeling. His bloodshot eyes were framed by dark circles and topped off with his ever creased forehead. He ran his hands over the stubble growing on his cheeks, seeing himself alienated him. This face wasn’t one which he associated himself with, but who Castiel once had been was no longer. What had once been his vessel, there only to contain a much greater being, had become his only form now. He was alive, with a body housing a soul that could die and end up in Heaven or Hell, or even become a spirit. There was blood pumping in his veins, being pushed through him by a beating heart. He felt temperature changes that could raise the hair on his arms or bring sweat to his brow. It was all so new, and frighteningly permanent.

He turned his back toward the mirror and craned his head around to peek over his shoulder. He had yet to see the damage done by the removal of his wings, and when he did his head began to swim. The sight was atrocious. Two bleeding, gaping socket like wounds surrounded by angry pink skin disrupting the smooth surface of his back

Castiel snapped his eyes shut and sucked in a quick breath, bracing himself against his bed. He hadn’t known what he had expected to see, but whatever he had just seen was much worse than he ever could have dreamed up on his own.

“I got new bandages—,” Dean entered the room and came to a screeching halt. “Cas?”

Castiel ignored him and attempted to focus on his breathing. He was failing miserably. His lungs seemed to be working their way into his throat as his chest constricted with panic. He let out a series of broken breaths before allowing himself to collapse onto the unmade bed before him.

It wasn’t so much the grotesque sight of the injuries that sent him reeling. He had seen much worse in heavenly wars and even during the time he spent as an angel on Earth. Truthfully, it was the blaring absence he was greeted with in the mirror. Thousands upon thousands of years spread out behind Castiel, but that meant nothing. Every second of his existence seemed to fade away in his anguish.

“They’re _gone_ ,” heart breaking shake of despair burned in Castiel’s words. He could feel Dean’s sympathetic eyes watching him before Dean began to speak.

“So you can’t fly anymore, at least you’re alive.”

Dean meant well; Castiel knew that, but he couldn’t stop the anger that overtook him upon hearing Dean speak. “It isn’t about _flying_ , Dean.” Castiel looked up at Dean, his eyes dark with fury.

Dean sat on the opposite side of the bed, causing it to dip slightly with under his weight. “Then what?” Dean looked at Castiel expectantly.

Castiel’s eyes narrowed, and he took a minute to find a way to relate his loss to Dean in a manner he could understand. “What makes you Dean Winchester?”

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but Castiel held his hand up.

“Don’t answer that. It was a rhetorical question, but let's say you gave up everything. The music you listen to, your car, pie, hunting, and Sam, too. What’s left of you?”

Dean stared at his hands and let out a rueful laugh, “A big steamin’ pile of self-hate.”

“I gave up my grace, my wings, and the only home I’ve ever known… So, what do you believe is left of me?”

Dean rubbed the leg of his jeans and passed his tongue over his lips. “We need to get these new bandages on,” he said numbly.

Castiel shook his head at Dean. Had he not known him so well, he would have found his blatant avoidance of anything emotional utterly unbelievable.

Dean set to work, cleaning Castiel’s injuries tenderly and silently as Castiel drowned in his thoughts. He had been aware that his abrupt transition into humanity would be difficult, but he hadn’t expected to feel so alone even with Sam and Dean constantly with him.

Dean tore the last bit of medical tape away from the roll and hesitated. “You shouldn’t hate yourself,” he mumbled before smoothing the tape over the edge of a bandage to hold it in place.

Dean’s words caught Castiel off guard, but he stayed quiet in hope that Dean would elaborate.

He did.

“Yeah, you’ve fucked up. We all have, but you’ve tried to fix what you’ve screwed all to hell.” Dean let out a sad little laugh, “This time you weren’t even trying to fix something you had broken…” Dean’s sentence tapered off as he began to shove various medical supplies into the large plastic first aid box. “The point is, Cas, it doesn't matter. Angel, man, whatever the hell you are—you’re good.”

Dean picked up the box and stood up from where he had situated himself behind Castiel. “You may not have wings and a halo anymore or any of that celestial shit, but you’re still good.”

Dean left, slamming the door behind him leaving Castiel alone to listen to the sound of his heart beat drown out the thump of Dean’s boots down the hallway.

Castiel fell asleep that night, knowing that Dean had spent the entire duration of his bandage change thinking of how to say those words.

He woke the next morning with the same heaviness in his chest while feeling even more tired than ever. Human emotions were constantly fluxing, but everything he had experienced so far had been different variations of emptiness and defeat. He was unable to grasp how the feeling of being empty inside could be so bone crushingly heavy.

He groaned as he turned over in bed. He didn’t think it was possible, but his body hurt more than it ever had, and he had developed a terrible throbbing pain just behind his right eye. He grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen Sam had given him from his bedside table only to find it empty. He let out a pitiful, defeated whimper and returned the bottle back to the nightstand. He couldn’t see how some humans lived with this kind of pain on a daily basis. He had been human for just under a week, and he was ready to succumb to his suffering.

There wasn’t a single cell in his body that wanted to climb out of the warmth of his bed, but he swung his legs over the edge of the bed despite himself. As he stood, his knees popped, and his spine cracked. The sound a cracking bones made him miss being an angel even more. The pains and needs of this form made him feel like he was constantly on the verge of breaking, and maybe even dying.

With an aggravated huff, he sulked out of his room and down the hall, silently cursing the Bunker for being so ridiculously large.

He reached the library just seconds later but found himself listening to the conversation being held inside rather than entering.

“You have got to stop being a baby about this, Dean!” Sam chided.

Castiel didn’t know what they were talking about, but could imagine Dean’s face after being called a baby.

“I’m not being a _baby_ , Sam,” Dean huffed defensively. “He hates himself. The dude gave up his wings and has massive holes in his back, all because of me and he hates himself. How am I supposed to handle that?"

They were talking about him. He wondered who initiated the conversation; he assumed it had been something Dean had let slip that prompted Sam to say something to his brother. It was nearly impossible for Castiel to believe that Sam and Dean had conversations about him when he wasn't around now that he had lost his grace; but they apparently did. Regardless, he couldn't see Dean willingly pursuing any emotional conversations. That wasn't very characteristic of his friend.

“I don’t know! Maybe you should start by being less of an ass? He gave up what he did for you because you’re you and for some stupid reason, he has always cared more about your well being than his own.”

Castiel stood as still as possible, keeping his breathing shallow as he waited for Dean to respond. Hearing Sam push Dean to open up made him feel like he could mean something to the Winchesters. Perhaps all was not lost after all.

Sam’s voice broke the silence before Dean could adequately respond. “What happened with you and the Mark is over Dean. It’s gone. It’s done with. Cas is here, I’m here. You’re cured and we all made it out alive. You’ve got to let go of what you did because of the Mark.”

Dean snapped back almost immediately. “Nothing is ever over for us, Sammy. When do we ever get a break?” there was a fire in Dean’s voice. “The minute I let something go, it comes back and bites me right in the ass. So, don’t you dare tell me to let this go!”

“Dean,” Sam murmured so low Castiel barely caught it.

“No, Sam. If I let my guard down for even a second, someone’s gonna get hurt. I’m not letting anyone else get hurt,” the anger that had laced Dean’s voice had faded, but there was still a burning passion in his words.

Castiel understood that Dean didn’t want to have another misfortune on his hands, but more than anything, he wanted him to know his situation was not because of something Dean had done. He wanted run into the library. To barge into the big room, with high ceilings, grab Dean by the arms and scream at him that he didn't make him do anything, but in all the languages Castiel knew there weren't the words that could make Dean see that.

He shook his head in attempt to clear his mind. Just the day before Sam had likened that motion to a Magic 8 Ball.

_You shake it and it kind of resets. Then it gives you a new answer, you know?_

He steadied himself, squared up his shoulders and took the silence between the brothers as an opportunity to walk through the entryway.

“Morning,” he grumbled, trying to ignore the almost guilty glance Sam and Dean shared as he fell into an armchair and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I need medication,” he stated bluntly.

“Run out of the stuff I gave you?” Sam wondered, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes and I have this headache now." He mimicked a stabbing motion in the direction of his eye, "It feels as if I’m being stabbed from inside my skull.” Castiel massaged his brow bone with a grimace.

"I'll go get you some more," Sam told him. He stood up, stretched his long arms above his head and sighed. "I'll be back in a minute."

And then Castiel was alone with Dean. Thoughts of phrases to share with Dean passed through his mind, leaving him before he could manage to verbalize anything at all. Having doubts over his words was something new to him. He had never been afraid to speak up before. As an angel the words normally spilled from his mouth without a second thought, but it was overtly evident that his human conscience wouldn't allow that.

He watched Dean sit silently in his place across the room. He was already drinking despite it hardly even being noon.

"Your liver must be screaming," Castiel said.

Dean took a quick drink. "Yeah, well, if I manage to die old and drunk, then I guess it's better than the alternative."

Castiel nodded. He supposed he could see why Dean would say that as the alternative means of his death would more than likely be being shot, bitten, or stabbed to death by some sort of monster.

Castiel cleared his throat, the opportunity for real conversation was open. If we was going to say anything at all, now would be his best opportunity.

“Dean, about what you said last night.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean replied almost instantly. Like he had been anticipating what he had said to be brought up and had rehearsed his attempt at a nonchalant response.

“I’ve never met another human being that is quite as skilled as you are in the art of avoiding important conversations. You’re stubborn and you’re hard headed, but I’ve said it before and I reiterate— this isn’t your fault.” He had spoken his mind, his words now hanging in the silence waiting for a response.

Dean began to start in on a sentence, but nothing ever made it from his mouth. His hands shot upward toward his head, causing the crystal glass full of whiskey he had been drinking to crash to the floor and shatter at his feet.

“Dean!” Castiel became completely unaware of the pains in his bones and the wounds on his back and found himself hurdling across the room to assist his friend.

The hunter was doubled over clutching the sides of head, with his eyes screwed shut in agony and in Castiel’s powerless state he began to panic.

“Sam!” he wailed desperately, never removing his eyes from Dean. As he pressed the palms of his hand against Dean’s shoulder he desperately wished for nothing more than to be able to fix whatever was causing the upset inside Dean’s head. He felt lost not being able to pass grace through his fingertips and mend ailments. That had made him useful, but now he was nothing more than an aching sack of flesh and bones.

He raised his voice and yelled again, “SAM!”

He was granted with a small feeling of relief when he could hear Sam bounding down the hallway into the library.

“Dean! What the hell is going on?” Sam was there, pushing Castiel aside slightly and grabbing hold of Dean’s wrists as Dean still clutched tight to his head.

Castiel backed away, watching the intense scene play out between the two brothers as his heart pounded in his chest. Sam was pleading with Dean. A quiet desperation drowning out any attempt of calmness as he moved his left hand the rest on the back of Dean’s neck. Castiel stood stiffly, watching the tension in Dean’s body fade away and his hands slowly dropped to rest on his thighs in tightly curled fist. Sam loosened his grip on Dean, allowing him to lean back into his seat.

Both Castiel and Sam wait bated breaths as Dean slowly opened his eyes. He looked around the room, as if he were checking his surroundings. He didn’t speak, he barely so much as took a breath.

It was Sam who dared to speak first. “What just happened?”

Dean’s eyebrows arched in surprise at the sound of Sam’s voice. He blinked a few times, like he was trying to refocus his vision.

“Dean?” Sam ventured again.

“I think I just saw Hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for that cliff hanger. 
> 
> Shares, comments, and kudos are greatly appreciated as that's what keeps me motivated and inspired. Your comments mean a great deal to me and I am so grateful for any comments I receive.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like it?! Let me know :) 
> 
> Also, I wanna give a shout out to tumblr user chiwalker for giving me ideas that helped get this chapter done. 
> 
> http://chiwalker.tumblr.com


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